


Pearls on a String

by ladyvivien



Category: James Bond (Movies)
Genre: Breast Fucking, F/M, Lingerie, Nipple Play, Older Woman/Younger Man, Power Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-27
Updated: 2013-01-27
Packaged: 2017-11-27 01:22:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/656464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyvivien/pseuds/ladyvivien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James has been a (relatively) good boy, and gets a reward.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pearls on a String

James likes to buy her lingerie. More precisely, he likes to by her bras and to slide his hand up stockinged legs to find nothing to bar his fingers entry to her eager wetness...

She’s building up quite a collection, really. Scraps of silk that caress her skin, filmy lace that does nothing to disguise the hardness of her nipples whenever he’s about. A few things that looked like something a Vegas showgirl would wear, not the head of the British secret intelligence services. Corsets, bustiers, vintage coned things she hasn’t worn since the 50s (and even then, only to seduce a CIA agent who liked that sort of thing). Even one that has become a personal favourite - a pretty peephole thing that gave her support but left her nipples free for his mouth, his tongue, his fingers, that left such little protection against her starched shirt that she came dangerously close to climax during a conference call with France from the sensation alone. And it took such little effort to summon Bond in for a debriefing only to find herself straddling him in her chair with his cock sticking out of his trousers, sucking her through wet fabric.

This, however... This is something new. Barely a bra at all, really, more a strip of silk he ties at the front. It covers her nipples and little more. She stands in front of the mirror as he grinds his erection against the small of her back and looks at how her breasts hang round and heavy, pale against the oyster-grey fabric. His hands circle her waist and then move up, squeezing and stroking until she's squirming in his arms, and murmuring into her ear that he's been imagining this all day.

Because what Bond likes best, after spending the day knowing precisely what M has on beneath those neat, demure suits, is to take his time. To unbutton her jacket slowly as he presses feather-light kisses to her face and throat, and then to kiss her hard on the mouth as he squeezes her breasts appreciatively through her shirt. He’d groaned into her mouth earlier, rubbing the pads of his thumbs across her nipples

And then he’d pulled, hard, sending buttons scattering all over the floor

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, looking at their reflection.

She lets the silk flutter to the floor and he's on her eagerly, one hand fingering her, the other groping her arse, and his wicked, wicked tongue on her nipples.

She sighs happily, urging him on with whimpers and moans and, as she approaches orgasm, filthy little whispers. "Bite them, James. You know I like it when you make it hurt. Remember when you put the clamps on me the other night?” She’s rewarded with a strangled curse, and she feels him rut against her hip. “Yes. I thought you liked that. You naughty boy. Watching my breasts bounce as I rode you with those pretty little butterfly clamps pinching my nipples.” He moans, loud and incoherent, and she realises he’s nearly as close to the edge as she is. But she has a present in store for him, and she won’t be satisfied with him coming in his trousers, soaking his leg and hers in his come.

She grinds down against his fingers, two of them shoved roughly up inside her just the way she likes it, his thumb stroking her clit.

“You’ve been such a good boy lately James,” she croons, even though he hasn’t. “You hardly killed anyone on your last mission. And you made me come so hard just then. You’re doing such a good job of keeping me happy, darling. I think you deserve a little reward.”

She sinks to the floor and looks up at him through her lashes, like she was a honeytrap of twenty-five. He unbuckles his trousers eagerly, anticipating a blowjob. She gives the head of his cock one loving lick, and then sits back.

“Is that really what you want?” she asks.

He starts to nod, then stops. “Whatever _you_ want,” he says, blushing slightly. He’s always so endearing when he’s worried about displeasing her.

“I want,” she tells him firmly, “to know what you want. What do you want to do to me, James?” She lifts her breasts up in her hands, aureoles still wet from his saliva. “What do you want to do to these?”

He gives a guttural moan, but doesn’t speak. He just stands there, staring at her, achingly hard and embarrassed as hell. He needs a little coaxing, then.

“Tell me. Tell me, or I’ll get dressed and leave.”

He clears his throat. “I... Ma’am...” He falters. She was right, then. He does want this as badly as she’d thought. He crouches down, so his eyes are level with hers, and he takes a breast in each hand, running his thumb over her nipples. “I want to make love to them.”

She smiles. “No you don’t.” He looks confused, embarrassed, thinking he’s misjudged things. “You want to fuck them, don’t you darling?” The noise he makes is more like a whimper than anything else. He nods, eagerly. “You can. I’ll let you, James. Such a good boy, _my_ good boy.”

She leans forward and takes him in her mouth, laving his shaft with her tongue and smearing the pre-cum leaking from the tip across the sensitive skin.

She cups them for him and, shaking, he starts to ease his prick through the space she’s created. When his balls are pressing up against the underside of her breasts and his tip is nestled in her clavicle, he stops.

“Mmm,” she murmurs in appreciation, sensing he needs a little encouragement. “Your cock feels as good against my throat as it does in it.” He whines at that, his hips starting to rock back and forth, and she reaches around to give his arse a brief squeeze.

This isn’t her first time doing this - although it’s the first time she’s offered out of anything other than the desire to seduce a mark - but from the way he moves, awkward, tentative and ashamed, it is his. How novel, to be James Bond’s first time for something.

“Does that feel good?” she prompts. He’s flushed, eyes half-shut, biting his lip. He’s not usually this silent, he’s normally more than ready to tell her how good she feels, how tight she is around his cock, how he’s been hard for her all day.

He nods. “Fuck, M,” he whispers hoarsely. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this.”

She chuckles, and the resulting movement makes him groan. “Oh, I think I’ve got a pretty good idea. All those meetings when you could barely look me in the eye. The lingerie you’ve been buying me. The way you stared when I wore that black dress to the Embassy party the other week...”

“That dress should be illegal,” he groaned. “The way it pushed your tits up. There wasn’t a man in the room who didn’t want to go home with you at the end of the night.”

“But it was you who did,” she murmurs, remembering the night in question. “I could barely walk for a week. And I still can’t look at that table without blushing. Tell me,” she asks as his jerky movements become more controlled, “will you be able to look at me without blushing? When we sit down for the Brussels briefing tomorrow, will you be thinking about the mission or about how scandalously good your cock looks between my breasts?”

“This,” he grunts. “You’ll be sitting there in your smart suit, discussing the finer points of German foreign policy and all I’ll be thinking about is how you let me fuck your tits less than twelve hours before.”

She tuts, mockingly. “I want your mind on the job, 007. If not...” she moves as if to pull away, and laughs when he grabs her shoulders.

“Please,” he groans. “Please, Ma’am. I promise I’ll concentrate. I’ll even take notes if you want, just let me... So close, you feel so fucking good, so warm and soft... Can’t believe you’re letting me do this.”

“No?” she asks, eyebrow raised. She sticks out her tongue, allows herself a quick swipe of the head of his cock as he pushes it up between her breasts and shudders at the noise that comes from the back of his throat. “Did our previous encounters lead you to believe I was in some way conventional in bed? Vanilla? _Dull_?”

He’s shaking his head even as he’s grinding himself into her flesh. “You could never be dull,” he hisses as he draws back, teasing one nipple with the damp tip of his cock. “Dull women don’t let me bend them over tables. Dull women don’t let me pull them into an alcove at a party and finger them until they come. And they certainly don’t let me do this.” He pushes back, far enough that she’s forced to open her mouth to accommodate him and something in the submissiveness of the act makes her throb.

He’s close, so close she can taste him leaking out onto her tongue, and it’s time for her to take him in hand as it were. She arches into his thrusts, pressing her breasts tight around his thick length, urging him on towards the edge.

“That’s it,” she purrs. “Spunk all over me. All over my nice big tits, James. This is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

The hand on her shoulder tightens its grip and his breathing his harsh and ragged. All his filthy words are gone, replaced by a low growl as he starts to splash on her breasts. The thought flashes into her head that the resulting mess is actually supposed to be terribly good for one’s skin.

By the time he’s done, by the time he’s a shuddering, softening wreck collapsing against the pillows, she’s covered in him. She turns towards the mirror, taking in her reflection. She looks positively obscene, she thinks. Grey skirt crumpled, stockings torn and sagging, and nothing else on bar the cooling sticky white liquid on her chest. She looks well-fucked. She looks obscene. She looks rather wonderful. She moves to the bathroom, trying to ignore the parts of her body that creak and groan like settling floorboards, and wipes herself down. Then she discards the last remnants of clothing and returns to find Bond snuggled under the covers, a look of bemused satisfaction on his face.

“Thank you,” he says, leaning over to kiss her as she wriggles down next to him.

“My pleasure,” she tells him fondly. Then, “I meant what I said about the Brussels meeting, you know. It’s terribly important. Can you at least try and concentrate? And no doodling when you’re supposed to be making notes either - I don’t want the psychologists getting hold of them again."

He shudders in recollection, and pulls her in for a cuddle. Just as she’s drifting into a blissful post-coital snooze, he says speculatively “If I don’t kill anyone in this mission...” She glances up and, even though they’re alone he leans in and whispers the rest in her ear.

By the time he’s done, she’s very nearly flustered. Still, this is a very important mission, and if it means he stays out of trouble...

“Well,” she says thoughtfully. “Only if you’re _very_ good.”

Three weeks later, with the target successfully apprehended, the files recovered and not a single drop of blood spilled, the Prime Minister calls to congratulate her personally. Tanner takes the call and promises to pass on the message. He glances at the door to M’s office, thanks God for soundproofing and decides to leave for the night since M clearly doesn’t need him. She does however, as he will discover the next day when a solitary high-heeled shoe is discovered beneath his chair and his waste paper bin is full of condom wrappers, need his desk.

He never asks and she never tells, but Bond never looks at his desk in quite the same way after that.


End file.
